


now i see (that love is selfish)

by julek



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Lowercase, M/M, Winter At Kaer Morhen, this is very soft and very self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26253121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julek/pseuds/julek
Summary: "Winter’s near.” He draws in a shaky breath, and closes his eyes. “I wanna spend some time with you before we part ways.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 206





	1. country of two

“ _Gods_ , I’m tired”, Jaskier announces as he enters the pitch-dark room. “Being incredibly talented _has_ its perks, I reckon, but it also leaves me _dreadfully_ exhausted every night.”

Geralt looks at him from the bed where he’s leisurely laying on, head propped on his arm. “I take it tonight went well?”, he says, already rolling his eyes.

“Tonight went _exceptionally_ well, dear Witcher. Had those people dancing in no time”. Jaskier shrugs off his blue doublet, carefully placing it on a stool, and takes his undershirt off, giving Geralt an unobstructed view of his bare chest. “And they paid well, too” —one boot comes off— "so maybe we can stay here a little longer.”

Geralt frowns. “I don’t have any more contracts here”, he says, snorting when Jaskier loses balance as he tries to take his other boot off.

“I _know_ that, Geralt, but wouldn’t it be _nice_?” Jaskier’s hands find the laces of his breeches, and he starts to unlace them slowly. “Could be like a mini-vacation, you know? My treat.”

Jaskier folds his breeches haphazardly and places them on top of his discarded doublet. He makes his way to the bed, where Geralt’s already sprawled out with his eyes closed, but a small smile spreads across his lips, almost like he can’t help it. 

“What do you say?”, Jaskier asks softly, and he climbs on the bed. He lays on his side, facing Geralt, and tangles their legs together, pressing his cold feet to the underside of Geralt’s knees, taunting. “No monster slaying, no sleeping on the hard ground of the forest. Winter’s near.” He draws in a shaky breath and closes his eyes. “I wanna spend some time with you before we part ways.”

Geralt opens his eyes and gingerly touches Jaskier’s face, carding his fingers through his hair. Jaskier leans into the caress, pressing his nose against Geralt’s shoulder, exhaustion setting into his bones. 

“No monster slaying means no coin, bard.” Jaskier opens his eyes, and props himself up on one elbow to look at Geralt. “Are you talented enough to keep us both fed?”, he teases.

Jaskier narrows his eyes, and Geralt wants to kiss the frown off his face. “Are you _doubting_ me, Witcher?”, he says, and taps his index finger against Geralt’s chest. “Shall I remind you whose coin paid for this bed you’re laying —pretty comfortably, may I add— on?”

“Mine”, Geralt says with a smirk.

Jaskier splutters with indignation, the tip of his ears pink. “You may have had too much to drink, Geralt. Otherwise you wouldn’t be speaking such nonsense”, he says, but there’s no bite to his words.

They lay in comfortable silence, and Jaskier rests his head on Geralt’s chest, listening to the slow beating of his heart. He closes his eyes, and he’s about to fall asleep when he feels Geralt’s fingers nudging his. 

“What is it?”, Jaskier murmurs, nuzzling into Geralt’s neck. 

“Come to Kaer Morhen with me”, Geralt says, his voice only a whisper. He brings their joined hands up, tangling and untangling their fingers in the dark.

Blue eyes meet amber.

“If you want to, I can… send word to the keep.” Geralt turns to look at Jaskier, and his expression is so soft, he almost wants to look away. He doesn’t. “If you want to.”

“I do”, Jaskier says, and leans forward to press a small kiss to Geralt’s jaw. “I want to.”


	2. at war with the rest of the world.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love?"_ — Sylvia Plath.

Amber light washes against golden skin, casting moving shadows on the wall — the gentle rise and fall of a ribcage, the pronounced arch of a spine that mimics the snow-bathed ridges of the blue mountains. Grown out curls draping over eyes, ears, barely reaching shoulders, too long to brush back but too short to tie up. 

Firewood splits, the hearth warming the room with its gentle flame. Downstairs, furniture is being moved —the wooden chairs in the library, the ones with claws carved into their arms— and doors are closing, the wolves turning in for the night.

“Are you tired?”

Jaskier shifts in his place, the fur-lined blankets a heavy weight against his chest. 

“A bit,” he murmurs, face half-buried in Geralt’s neck.

Cold fingers find their way to Jaskier’s waist, gently brushing against his stomach. Geralt’s hands are calloused and hard from training, but his touch is far from indelicate. He traces a finger up Jaskier’s spine, his skin tender and inviting, and stops at his shoulder blade, grazing the back of his hand against the bone. 

Jaskier watches him, his features softened by the firelight. The stubble peppering his chin, always there but never harsh, the disappearing lines on his forehead, a faint reminder of life on the Path. His eyes, golden in daylight but darkened now in the half-lit room, taking him in.

“What are you thinking of?” he asks, gently, his voice thick with sleep.

Geralt’s eyes meet his, right hand wandering over Jaskier’s arm, his collarbone, his jaw. His thumb brushes over Jaskier’s bottom lip, and Geralt feels his breath hitch. He touches Jaskier unhurried, memorizing his face, his scent —honey and lavender— the feel of his skin, melting under his fingertips.

He says nothing, simply breathing Jaskier in. He looks different from the day they first met, more seasoned. His shoulders broader, his face rougher, though never coarse to the touch. His body covered in more scars than he should bear. Still his eyes remain the same, attentive and searching, liquid blue piercing through Geralt’s defenses, tearing his walls down, one by one.

“Before I found you,” Geralt whispers, “I didn’t know what to do with my hands.”

Always too rough, Geralt’s hands gripped swords, knuckles white with exertion. He gathered herbs —never flowers— and moved on. He stroked roach’s mane after a long day, but he didn’t linger. He’d learned not to depend on the touch of people, strangers devoid of good intentions with his kind. He embraced his brothers tightly every year, wishing to live long enough to see them again, wishing they lived too.

“Whatever I tried to hold on to,” he continues, “it always slipped away. It never felt right.” 

He lays his hand on Jaskier’s chest.

“Never like this.”

Geralt closes his eyes, resting his head where his hand laid moments ago. Like this, he can’t see Jaskier’s face — he can only hear the beating of his heart. _One, two, three, four._

Jaskier’s fingers softly card through his hair, his touch warm and deliberate.

“You know,” he whispers, “I used to spend hours composing about the heart’s presence in our body. Its weight, dense with feeling; its beating, encompassed with our yearning for love.” 

Geralt turns his head, facing Jaskier. 

“Now I know I was wrong,” he says, taking Geralt’s hand. “Tenderness is in the hands.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <3
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://julek.tumblr.com/)!


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